


There's Absolutely Nothing He Don't Love About You

by sherlocked221



Series: Bob Dylan; Matchmaker [1]
Category: Bob Dylan (Musician), The Travelling Wilburys, Tom Petty (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Matchmaking, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 11:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16085114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: A very reluctant Bob Dylan acts as matchmaker to Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne, one of which is too nervous to tell the other that he likes him.





	There's Absolutely Nothing He Don't Love About You

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this very quickly and it's not been checked over. It could be really badly written for all I know, but at least I finished it!

Why, why does it have to be me? I actively try and stay out of other people’s private lives. Course, that’s difficult when you’re in a group as close-knit as the Wilburys, but I try. I’ve tried to be both a little more open, and more myself around them. And I am a grumpy arsehole who likes to keep himself to himself. You see where that problem lies.

Anyway, I am not the only quiet one of the group. Since George isn’t in the Beatles anymore, he is certainly not ‘the quiet one’ as everyone had labelled him, and with a voice as powerful as Roy’s, he is hardly that either. But Tom, Tom is pretty shy for a conventional rock star. You look at him and you might expect he’d be out every night fucking girls, drinking, doing hard drugs. I don’t really know about the latter these days, but the former, I’d say he is often too shy to go and speak to girls, never mind fuck them. He’d probably say it too.

In fact, he has. He’s told me that there is someone he has a crush on, but is too scared to do anything about it.

Only a couple of days ago, I realised who he was talking about. Because, to my surprise, it’s not a girl. I haven’t actually seen any chicks around him apart from Olivia, and as wonderful as she is, Tom would never look at her like that for he knows who she adores about everyone else. There is no tearing her away from George, or George away from her, and there is not any one of us who could even consider doing so.

No, I am pretty sure Tom is more besotted by one of our band members. One of the Wilburys. And as it’s not me, and as much as we all love George to death, you already know that we would never. That only leaves Roy or Jeff. And after seeing the looks Tom afforded Jeff today, I think it’s safe to say that he is totally infatuated.

But I am the only one who sees it, and apparently I am also the only one who thinks he should do something about it. I asked him, without confessing that I knew who he liked, why he doesn’t want to tell them, and though the first couple of answers he gave me used his shyness as an excuse, which he delivered with a bashful smile at his nervously writhing hands, he gave the age old cliché, “We’re friends. What if… they don’t like me back and I fuck up our friendship.”

And as he spoke, I watched his blue eyes dart over at the living room. We stood in the kitchen, by the door, probably getting beers each, or something like that. And we could see practically everything, and everyone in the living room, including the two armchairs either side of a two seater sofa. One of these was occupied by Jeff Lynne.

I had to stop myself exploding with frustration. _I know! I know who it is! I know who you like! I’m just going to go and tell him._

Of course, I couldn’t do that. Tom would kill me, or keel over in embarrassment. I kept my suspicions to myself and tried my very hardest to be helpful.

“If you really are friends with this… person… then telling them you have feelings for them can’t hurt, even if they don’t reciprocate them.”

Tom cast his gaze at the floor, looking apprehensive, “You think so.”

“Oh,” I sighed, “I’m sure of it.”

Jeff isn’t the kind of guy to be put off by this sort of stuff. He’s pretty open, funny, and he loves the Wilburys, let’s be honest. Like he’s going to be uncomfortable if one of us, in fact, the one he is probably the closest to, tells him he’s crushing on him. If he doesn’t reciprocate, no way he’ll make Tom feel bad, or things awkward between them. Like he would ever jeopardise their friendship. And, you know what, I bet he would love Tom back. I mean, why rule it out?

At least I thought I had dealt with this small dip into what it’s like to be a caring friend. You know, giving advice and all. It was interesting, but I really hoped I wouldn’t have to do it again. I can hardly deal with my own problems, never mind other people’s.

But if I should be so lucky. I thought, perhaps, Tom might pull Jeff aside. I thought by the end of today, when we all ended up going home, they might have talked it out. Either they’d be leaving together, or they’d be parting on good terms. Hell, I bet either way, they’d end up sharing a car, sleeping over at one another’s houses. Nothing would have changed and only I would be any the wiser.

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. They were hardly ever alone together long enough to have a chat, and Tom was staying suspiciously silent, not taking every opportunity to be with Jeff as you might expect him to, when he wants to speak with him. Like when Jeff announced he was going out for a cigarette, and asked if anyone would join him. If I was Tom, I would be going out, whether I needed my nicotine fix or not in that moment. Any excuse. But no. Tom sat quietly on the sofa next to George. I could’ve bashed my head against the wall in that moment.

The whole day was full of them, moments, opportunities I’m sure he saw, but never took. Moments where I wanted to grab him, shake him and put him on a one-way path that collided with Jeff’s. By the end, I managed to pull him aside- see how damned easy it was!!!- and ask him if he had said anything.

Shyly, Tom shook his head. It took him a minute to realise that I knew who he liked. I’d used his name and everything.

“Wha… how did you…?”  
“Just shut up and speak to him.” I hissed, “Nothing will happen.”

And I was right. Nothing did happen. Because that day, Tom didn’t speak to him. It looked hopeful when I noted them getting into the same car, just those two, together, but when I called Tom that evening to make sure, he told me that he got too nervous.

I could’ve killed him.

Instead, I told him not to rush. I told him that we would all be meeting up the next day, and then we would be in the studio the next. Two whole days to hang out, two whole days full of chances to say something.

And when I got off the phone, I scolded myself for having gotten so involved in this. Since when have I been a matchmaker.

Well, since two days ago, and I’ll be honest, I’m not enjoying it much at all. It bothers me, because I have to stand in the side-lines, work my magic from a distance, work through people. And if the damned person is too scared to carry out what I suggest, that’s more frustration than I can take. For Tom, though, and Jeff, and the other Wilburys, I’ll do it. I love them all enough, even if I lay awake last night trying to think of how I could force this… my friend… into confessing.

Yeah, because he didn’t yesterday either. And look, if I thought he didn’t want to do it, I wouldn’t be so invested, I wouldn’t be trying to force him, but when I saw him try, and subsequently fail so many times yesterday, I would say that he does want this. He needs a bit of forcing. I mean, in the end, I really wanted to just ask him if he wanted me to go and speak to Jeff. But we’re not in school, we’re not kids. Tom is a grown man; he can do this for himself.

With a slight push from me, of course.

I just wasn’t sure what push that could be. How could I give him an opportunity obvious enough that he’d see, and definite enough so he couldn’t back out? Eventually, after spending far too long staring into shadows of my bedroom, mulling over my friend’s problems- which I was sure I shouldn’t be so affected by- I picked up the phone to George.

Either that man never sleeps, or he does, but makes time for his friends, whose numbers I’m sure he knows off by heart.

“Bob, how are you?”

“Fine, thank you. George, I need to ask you a question, because it is really annoying me.”

“Go ahead.” He sounds so awake, bubbly and enthusiastic, even as it approaches midnight. I wonder how the hell he does it.

“How can I make someone tell someone else that they like them?”

“Um…” I could practically hear the smile on George’s face. I didn’t like that much. Did he think I…?

“I seem to be playing matchmaker,” I explained with contempt. George laughed at that.

“Who whom?”

“Doesn’t matter, I just need some advice.”

“Ok,” he was still smirking to himself, “Well, we’re musicians, you’re one of the greatest lyricist in the world, can’t you write a ‘she loves you’ type song?”

A song? Well, with our studio time coming up the next day, I thought it would be the best idea. I could come up with some kind of double entendre song, couldn’t I?

Well, when I thought that, I only meant it to have the double meaning that might hint some kind of romance. I didn’t expect… Well, I’ll see what they all think.

I meet George and Roy in the car over to the studio before the other two. I didn’t orchestrate that- I think I’ve had quite enough orchestrating for one lifetime- but it’s nice how it works out, because I show them the lyrics I’ve scrawled on a magazine cover. Along with a guitar, I give them an idea of how I want it to sound, and as always, we’ve got something whole enough to present to the other two. Perfect.

“Um, Bob…” George hums quietly, “Is this about… what you asked me the other day?”

It almost had slipped my mind that I asked him. Looking away from his narrowed, curious eyes, I nod.

“Have you used it yet?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, did you sing it to them? Did it work?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to?”

I don’t really want to get George involved. Not because I am possessive of this role I am playing. Not because I peculiarly want to leave him out. If I could, I’d give him a whole transcript of what Tom and I talked about, every word, every look between them, every suspicion I’ve had, and I’d tag him in so I don’t have to flail about in an attempt to set these too up. It is instead out of respect for Tom. I don’t think he intended for me to know who he liked, and it is not my place to go around telling other people.

However, I am in a sort of mess. I want to help him, I’m trying to do so, but I have this horrible feeling that I’m going to fail, and this’ll drag on even longer, with me being as much help as Tom is to himself.

Luckily, George gets me. He seems to understand me, even when others think I’m being overly cryptic.

Quietly, I say, “Soon. Sooner than you think.” And I turn to see quite a reassuring smile on George’s kind face. Slowly, I think he’s understanding. I don’t know how. He must be so in tune with his friends that he is some kind of mind-reader, but I do get the sense that he knows.

At least I can’t say that I told him.

At the studio, Jeff and Tom are sitting there, each with their Gretsch guitars laying over their slouching bodies. I wondered, for a moment, if they had come together, if maybe Tom had said something. If I should be so lucky. It would’ve saved me from getting involved, from making a fool of myself singing these lyrics I scrawled last night. Reading them this morning, I am a bit embarrassed. I must’ve been so tired when I wrote them, or really, strangely horny.

Anyway, I catch Tom’s smiling gaze, and get the feeling that he has remained as helpless and silent as I have seen him these past few days. There’s guilt in his eyes, a wordless apology. I send one back to him. ‘I’m sorry I’m about to get involved, I hope it’s for the best.’

As usual, we begin our recording session by quoting Monty Python. Basically the first hour we spend together, we forget to do any actual work- if you can even call what we do ‘work.’ Really, we’re just five musicians recording our jamming sessions. There’s nothing serious about it. Certainly not when we’re breathlessly giggling, in hysterics as Roy decides he’s going to act out an entire scene from ‘The Holy Grail.’ We all would join in, if we knew it as well as he does, and if we weren’t rolling around on the floor laughing.

Then, of course, George decides to rat me out. There I was, hoping I could just forget about setting my two friends up, wait until I can write a song slightly better than the one in my jacket pocket, or until Tom has the balls to say something himself.

But George, if he really has caught onto my whole matchmaking idea, won’t let this opportunity go to waste. If he knows that he can spread love between two people, he’ll be standing there with a butter knife.

“Oh, Bob had some lyrics…” He says, quite out of the blue. I refrain from shooting him a very dirty look.

A chorus of approval sounds from Jeff and Tom’s direction. Great, now they’re all ears.

I pick up my own guitar. George and Roy offer to back me.

“Oh, already planned this, have you?” Jeff laughs.

Man, you have no idea.

And planned… in the loosest sense of the term. I wouldn’t really say I planned any of this. I’m winging it. And I have no idea if it’s going to work.

Strumming the first few chords, George and Roy catch up with me, just as we had in the car. We have some kind of arrangement. It’s janky and full of gaps, hardly even like a demo, but all I need is something to _sing_ to. Well, I say sing… I’m not exactly known for my amazing voice. It’s the lyrics that matter, the lyrics that I sing to Jeff.

“He loves your sexy body…”

My eyes flick to Tom, for barely a second. A gesture enough, I hope, that the ‘he’ is Tom.

“He loves your dirty mind…”

I see a smirk turn upwards Tom’s lips. I don’t know if he gets it, or if he just finds the words funny. Either way, I have him listening.

“He loves when you hold him, grab him from behind.”

Now here, I hate myself. I hate myself because I get an idea, and it’s a stupid one. It’s one that might be a push enough to make things obvious, but do I really want to…?  
I smile guiltily and avert my eyes, opening my mouth to sing the next line. As soon as it slips out, I curse myself. I regret it. It just sounds so bad. And I knew it would.

“Oh, Jeff, you’re such a pretty thing, he can’t wait to introduce you to the other members of his gang.”

Behind me, I hear someone strum an awkward chord. Then there is only one accompanying guitar. And I assume its George still playing, unfazed by what I had said. Roy, instead, has stopped and cast his gaze down at me, utterly confused. I peer back at him. I doubt he had caught on in the car. He was too busy putting a sound to my stupid lyrics, and laughing at the utter absurdity of them. He really liked it, it would seem. He just didn’t see where I had crossed out a name, where I had pencilled in ‘Jeff’ and decided against. Not only didn’t it work, but I didn’t think I’d need to say something so obvious. Then, of course, I went and sung it.

When I look up, Jeff’s eyes, which we so rarely see under those signature shades he seems to have forgone today, have grown wide. His brow furrows and mouth falls open ajar.

I look at Tom. He is a mess of blushed cheeks and glances Jeff’s way. At least _he’s_ got it. I plead with him when I catch his gaze, I plead with him to put me out of my misery and just say something. Just tell him.

Just tell him.

“What the…” Jeff chuckles. He shoots an amused look at Tom, who reciprocates with an expression I can’t quite read. Slowly, we making music fade away.

Come on Tom.

His already open mouth- fallen slack upon hearing Jeff’s name- moves, as though he is trying to speak, but he simply falls into nervous giggles.

“Sorry.” He mutters, and though I know he directs it to Jeff, I take it as an apology for putting me through this.

“ _Tom._ ” I hiss, trying to sound encouraging. Unfortunately, I’m not good at that, at being an encouraging friend. It comes out more frustrated than anything else.

But Tom knows me well, he knows I don’t mean it. He knows I’m trying to help him, I think that’s why he looks so apologetic, because he has completely lost his tongue. And poor Jeff is sitting there, completely lost. A silence like no other hangs over us all. I can’t take it!

“Tom!” I say, “Don’t you have something you want to say right now? About my song… maybe?”

“It’s good.” He stammers, “I like it.”

I have to physically prevent myself from slapping myself in the face.

“I think it’s funny.” Jeff comments, “But um… why did you say ‘oh Jeff?’ Have you got something you want to tell me, Bob?” He’s joking. He’s teasing. But he has no idea that he has hit the nail on the bloody head there, just the wrong nail.

“I don’t know, _Jeff_. Tom, do you know why I said Jeff?”

Tom bites his bottom lip as he slowly begins to nod. All our eyes are on him now. Mine and George’s are intensely awaiting some variation of ‘I like you.’ Roy and Jeff’s are just searching for some explanation to this strange situation. They seem quite unsettled. It’s probably the quietness of the room, the awkwardness. When have we ever been awkward together? When have we ever been silent? Sure, people haven’t been in on jokes, we tease them by talking about it in front of them, and not explaining ourselves, but never before has it felt like it does now.

I can’t wait until it’s over. And if Tom isn’t going to end it, I will.

Thankfully, Tom begins, “I think Bob is trying to tell you that I…”

“That you…?”

“Well,” He points at me, as though I’m meant to know what to do. All I can think of is start singing again.

“He loves your sexy body, he loves your dirty mind.”

“I like you.”

I audibly breathe a sigh of relief. I believe that’s my work done, thankfully

“Shall we leave these two to talk?” I suggest, turning around and shooing Roy and George out the door. George goes without a question. Roy stands stunned for a moment, before I manage to shuffle him out of the room. As soon as the door to the studio closes, we three on the outside, the (hopeful!) two love birds inside, Roy practically explodes.

“What just happened?”

George and I smirk at one another.

“I have no idea. But I think it worked.”

And I’m right. It has worked, because when we try to go back in, we’re stopped by the sight of Jeff pressing a kiss on Tom’s slightly parted, stunned lips.

See, I knew, I knew he’d like him back.

Maybe I should be a matchmaker…


End file.
